


Ad Initium

by ButterflyGhost



Series: due South Wizard!Verse [11]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:30:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob is killed, and Benny's investigation leads him to Chicago, where he meets Kowalski and Vecchio. (AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chlamydomonas Nivalis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and lonely snow.

I think... I think the thing that shocked me most about my father's death was that it was utterly non magical. It is an odd thing to think, and I hate myself for it, because I sound like one of those elitist alumni of the Oxbridge crypto colleges, but the fact that he died like a muggle seemed, at first, mundane.

I realise, of course, that however he died I was not going to be happy about it. Had he died in a magical altercation then I would have been just as resentful of the wizarding world for taking him from me.

Therein lies the problem. The fact is that, although he died, his death hasn't taken him from me. He was never there to begin with. My father. It's the strangest thing. You don't realise how much you lean on the mere fact of someone's existence till they're gone. We rarely talked. When we did it was very automatic, functional, ritualised. He would expound, I would listen. We would sometimes confer on a case together, occasionally work a case together... and on those occasions we worked extremely well. When I was a boy I lived for such closeness, but for all my yearning it never occurred. As an adult I took secret pride in the fact that I was showing my father how grown up I was, how competent and good at my job. And of course, thinking those things underscored how much of a child I still was in his presence, how much of a child I was always going to be.

It's the oddest thing, the things you think of when your last parent is gone...

It seemed that nobody in Canada was taking his death seriously. Not the Mounties, not the Aurors, nor even Gerrard. This latter shocked me. 

“Ben, I'm sorry, but it was a hunting accident. You know what it's like. First week of the season, and suddenly every damn idiot wants to kill something. Near as we can tell, he caught a stray bullet. Useless death.”

I stood looking at my father's body, feeling numb. Aren't all deaths useless? Sometimes people, to comfort themselves and others, will say of a dead body that it looks peaceful, as though the person is only sleeping. My father's body did not look peaceful, nor did it appear to be sleeping. It looked like nothing, like a simulacrum of the real man. A horrid thing. Empty.

“Son, every officer in this place spent the last three days combing that gulch. If there was evidence of foul play, we woulda found it.” I feel myself nodding, still staring at the body. “When was the last time you talked to him?”

“Christmas,” I say. We barely spoke then. Our usual formality and stiffness around each other. Ellen had put out her annual, wonderful spread, and Maggie was still shining with happiness as she sat with her new husband at the festive table. Dad of course carving the turkey, and dropping hints about grandchildren. And... it had been a good Christmas, as our Christmases went. All of us there, for once, until I got the inevitable call out. Drunk and disorderly... magical or muggle, it didn't matter. They needed a cop on the scene. “I'll take this one, Dad,” I said, standing. I dropped Maggie a kiss on her forehead, and ruffled her hair, Ellen squeezed in a hug as I left, even Casey stuck out his hand and gave a vigorous shake.

Dad caught my eyes for a moment, and nodded. “Son.”

“Dad,” I replied, buttoning up, and stepped out the door.

That was it. That was our last conversation. 

Gerrard was either oblivious, or making kind excuses as he said, “well, I guess the more you know someone, the less needs to be said.”

Looking at my father's body I realised that we didn't know each other at all.  
…  
…

 

The next day found me at the scene of my father's death. I still could not call it the “accident scene,” although that is how it was described in the reports. I looked at it... felt it... 

It felt wrong. Not just incongruous, though the yellow of the crime scene tape fluttering it's 'do not pass' in the middle of such white wilderness was jarring. No, what I felt was... not quite magical, perhaps, but real, nonetheless. Something had happened here. Something beyond an accidental shooting, and a panicked cover up by an incompetent hunter. I felt the aftermath of confrontation. Anger. Something... something in the air. Not quite tangible, but still there. I wondered how the other Aurors who had attended the scene could have missed it. Then I realised that, of course, I could only sense it because of the family tie. The blood. The blood that Dief was now sniffing at. Old magic, as Quinn would have put it. Bone magic... not magic made with bones, because Quinn had no truck with tools of any sort, but magic that is in the bones of the world. Magic that won't allow itself to be crushed into spells, that flows like a river, to fit the shape of the world around it. I could smell the nature of my father's death, because he was my father. Because he was my kin. 

It was some little comfort to me, to know that, despite everything, we had at least that bone connection.

I knelt by the patch of red, as Dief sniffed and turned in circles, trying to make sense of his senses. Looked at the blood that had spread out and frozen in the snow. It resembled nothing more than... watermelon snow. The red pink snow that spreads with the chlamydomonas algae. Chlamos monas, lonely mantle. Chlamydomonas nivalis. Red and lonely snow.

My father's blood.

Sighing I stood, and following Dief's example, turned to gather my own senses, natural and magical alike. I settled my mind to dispassion, and surveyed the rest of the scene. (Crime scene, my instincts insisted.) The mountain rose steeply behind me, clothed with a green strip of trees, and my lungs were full of the smell of pine. Beneath me the valley opened, scooped out and swooping to the river. Blue and white, and clean. The river, the rocks, and snow. Snow, and the sound of the forest, and the wind. 

I crunched through the crisp whiteness, observing clues. The other investigators had obscured a lot of data, but there were still things they had missed. I followed my father's tracks, using my wand to scatter ash over them, so they stood out more clearly. To my left were trees, and I noticed one twig dangling, half snapped, where, I assume, he brushed up against it on his path. I caught his tracks again, turned, and began to descend, leaving the trees behind.

This was odd. I crouched down, and stared. A dead caribou. Not odd in and of itself, of course. But my father had been dead for days, and yet this was obviously what he had been examining, at some point before he was shot. Nobody had claimed this caribou. In such a harsh land, meat is valuable, yet this carcass had been left on the snow. I examined it carefully. It had not been shot. A full grown, healthy caribou, dropped dead on its tracks. No bullets at all.

Odd.

Even odder. This dead creature was not alone. Looking down the slope that led to the valley I saw others, dotted about. How many dead caribou? Whatever happened had been days ago. Thank goodness this was such a clear space, I thought, no background noise to get in the way... I had to concentrate hard, but I smelt no dark magic about these deaths, no magic at all. Just the faint aftermath of the animals' fear, and death itself.

“You want meat, Auror, go to a supermarket.”

Looking up, I saw Eric, tramping through the snow. Like many, if not most, of the Inuit magicals, he had always seen me as an outsider. Quinn had been the first one to give me a chance, to take me under his wing. Perhaps he saw something in me, though I couldn't say what. It might have been Eric who mentored me, had things been slightly different. Had I been a different sort of student. As it was, he had never been my shaman, although he did teach me certain things. Things about the Raven, Chulyin. Like the bird who was his patronus, Eric gathered shiny things. Never to keep, but to pass through his open hands to others. Unlike Quinn, therefore, he was not averse to the use of tools, although like most of the Inuit he did not rely on them. Quinn had always told me that trapping one's magic in an object was akin to damming a river, short sighted at best, dangerous at worst. It changed one's magical landscape in ways that were hard to predict. To the Inuit we Western wizards seem hopelessly materialistic. I can see their point.

When the time came, of course, my patronus was revealed to be Amarak, the wolf, as it had been my father's and grandfather's. No wonder, therefore, that Eric and I were at odds with each other. Not enemies, never that. But certainly never friends. The wolf and the raven do not lie down together, for obvious reasons. Chulyin would peck out Amarak's eyes, if he could. Amarak would gleefully eat Chulyin for breakfast, given half a chance. As if all this was not enough, my choice to follow in my father's footsteps and become an Auror simply confirmed in Eric his feelings of distrust.

“See any hunters come through here?” My voice was carefully casual, as though the answer didn't matter.

“Yep.”

“They kill them?” I knew already that they hadn't.

“Na.” 

“Then who?”

“Nobody. They just drank too much.”

He hooked the caribou I had been examining with magic, twisting his hands as he bound knots out of the air. Job done, he stood, and wordlessly started back down the slope, dragging the creature, by invisible bonds, behind him.

Huh, I thought, looking at dry land all around me. They drank too much.


	2. Ceneri Gloria Sera Est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fraser finds little support for his investigation, and attends his father's funeral.

Since my father's death was clearly not related to dark magic it was a matter of low priority at the Ministry. Other Aurors were sympathetic, of course, particularly my father's friend, Charlie Underhill. But the 'real' work of policing the magical world took priority, as always, which, I suppose, is as it should be. Despite their sympathy at my loss, however, there remained a distance. I was – I am, an oddity, even amongst Aurors. By virtue of my upbringing I was used to solitude, by virtue of my education I was awkwardly formal and overly informative. Even though Ellen, and later Maggie, had softened the sharper edges of my childhood, I still found it hard to connect. 

I suppose what I am saying is that I had no friends. I didn't even know how to miss them. Now, when I could have used a friend, there was nobody I felt I could call upon to help. Even Charlie Underhill could not break protocol and go hunting with me on such a low profile case. I could think of nobody who would be prepared to drop what they were doing and help me find my father's killer. Worse came when I asked for my father's wand, thinking that, perhaps, there might be some clue in its magical history that would help me reconstruct his last few days. I was told, point blank, that my father's wand was ministerial property, that it was, in fact, important evidence in several open investigations... in other words, I could not have it. With that, one avenue of investigation slammed like a door in front of me. The Ministry would not help.

This then, was something that I would have to do alone.

It was easy to arrange some personal leave, in both my lives, given recent circumstances. Sergeant Meers, the muggle who commanded me in my Mountie persona, was far more sympathetic than I expected. “Take as long as you want,” he said, and while he might, perhaps, have been glad to see the back of me for a while, I do think he felt a certain charity toward me. I may have been an awkward employee, but, for all that, my arrest record did make his command look good. When I left I had no reason to suspect that I would never see him again.

Gerrard and Eric had been correct. There had indeed been a party of hunters in the area the day my father died. It seemed to me highly likely that they were involved somehow, since they vanished so promptly after the shooting. At the very least they could have witnessed something. The next step was obviously to visit the local pilot. There wasn't another aircraft hanger in miles. At some stage these hunters must have flown with him.

On arrival I found the pilot standing next to his biplane, talking on the phone. As I approached he raised one distracted hand in a 'hang on a minute' gesture, and continued his discourse. Under normal circumstances I would have been mildly amused by the conversation he was carrying with his wife while attempting to load up his plane. He looked at me pleadingly. 

“I'm up at ten thousand feet and she wants me to stop off at the seven eleven...” Unfortunately, it made it harder for him to attend to and answer my questions. While his wife continued to add to the grocery list I tried, patiently to elicit some answers. At one point he so far misunderstood me as to think I was talking about nuns.

“Not unless they were carrying firearms,” I told him.

“You're sure they were Americans?”

“They were all wearing new boots, they were driving a Jeep Wrangler, and they carried big guns.”

“Americans it is then. Here you go... a group of dentists from Chicago came up for the weekend. Killed their limit and went home early.”

My father was killed by muggle dentists. I tried to imagine how Ellen would react to the news.

“Do you have a passenger list?”

“Uh... yeah.” Looking rather embarrassed he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper that appeared, at some point, to have contained something greasy. From the smell, a cheeseburger. “I'll need it back.” I flattened it, memorised the pencil scrawled names, and returned it to him.

“Thank you.”

It was a start.  
…  
...

The funeral home had laid him out in his coffin, in full uniform. He had been married, twice, in the red serge, had always worn it with pride. It seemed only fitting that he should be buried in it. Yet he looked even stranger, even less like a man than when I saw him at the hospital morgue. The make-up, perhaps. The smile they had stretched upon his face. I knew that muggle undertakers would stitch, and prick, and use pins to keep muscles from sagging, mouths from gaping open. Contact lenses with tiny little spikes on both sides to keep the eyes shut. Strangely, the dead caribou that I had left earlier that day to be examined at the mortuary seemed to look more dignified in death than my father. At least nobody had tried to paint life back on it. When an animal dies, it dies once. A man can die a thousand times, even after death. The brim of his hat had been clipped at the back, so that it would fit in the coffin. For some reason it hurt that his hat had been... defiled. It felt so disrespectful. I looked away, and they replaced the coffin lid. 

I don't attend funerals, normally. Obviously I must have gone to my mother's funeral, and perhaps others, as a child, but for whatever reason I have always avoided them. My father's is the only one I remember. There were wizards in attendance, but the majority of the congregation were muggle Mounties, rather than Aurors. Most of these people had no idea who my father really was, yet, for all that, they held him in high esteem. He had never set one community above another, had policed the magical and muggle worlds as fairly as each other. I realised, looking around, how very proud I was of that in him.

Charlie Underhill, representing the Ministry of Magic, was addressing the mourners, and extolling my father's virtues. “... It was said that he could track a ghost across sheer ice, and that a young officer would have to move fast and drive hard, just to catch his shadow...” Yes, I thought. That reference was for the scattering of wizards and witches in the audience. My father had indeed tracked a ghost across sheer ice. He had, in point of fact, caught him. 

I blinked hard, as vision sharpened near tears, and listened. This was who I had to live up to. This was the man who's shadow I must catch. My father would never let go of a trail, never let go of a suspect, even beyond the grave. I could do no less for him.  
…  
…

Gerrard smelled of... shame? Guilt, perhaps. We all feel guilty when a loved one dies, or a friend. He had known my father forever, even if he had never known of his 'other' life. When I lived with my grandparents I saw more of Gerrard than I did of my father, and I would imagine, with guilty pleasure, that he might one day reveal to me that he was my real father. 

Of course, I never entertained any doubts that I was Bob Fraser's son, inheriting as I did his magic. But... Gerrard was more of a father to me at times. The first horse I rode was Gerrard's. He had kept a careful eye on me, despite my insistence that I could ride a mule, and a horse was just a big mule. His horse, not at all amused by the comparison, rewarded me by bucking me off. My grandmother, of course, was as covertly watching Gerrard as he was watching me. I think this was the first time I saw an obliviation. She could not, after all, allow him to walk around with the memory of Bob Fraser's son bouncing like a rubber ball and giggling with glee. It was strange to see his bewildered blink, and loss of time, but I was so excited by the horse that I jumped straight back on. By the time we finished the horse had decided I was a tolerable little monkey, and Gerrard told me I was a born horseman. Even the next day, when I discovered my legs were too sore to walk, I was incoherently happy to have earned his approval.

The wake was noisy, smelled of whisky and tobacco, as I suppose these things always do. Gerrard was sitting by me, a glass of scotch in hand, elbows on the bar. I was nursing a mug of tea, not so much to drink it, as to signal that I didn't want anyone else to offer me a 'real drink.'

“Your Dad and I spent far too many nights in places like this.”

Perhaps, I thought, but kept it to myself. “What did they say,” I asked.

“I gave them your list of names. They'll sign them off and check them out.”

“With respect, Sir,” I said stiffly, “the Chicago PD are not going to make this a high priority case...”

I could see him stiffen a little at the 'sir,' but I was angry. Nobody was taking this seriously at all. Not muggle, not magical... it was as though I was the only person who cared. What, I thought, was the point of them praising him after his death, when it could do him no good, if they were going to continue to treat him with such a cavalier attitude? The hypocrisy of the situation rankled. Then I realised, of course, that I was not the only person who cared. I thought of Ellen, already gone home with Maggie and Casey, and her white face. Thought of Maggie, hand curved over her belly, thinking that nobody knew her secret. Maybe she had been going to announce the pregnancy next time she saw him. Too late now. Had she told Ellen yet? Maybe she should. It would take her mind off her grief.

Other people's lives would continue, but until I found out who had killed my father, I knew that mine could not. 

Gerrard put down his glass and turned to me, with an appraising smile. “Didn't fall too far from the tree, did you?” For a moment I felt that childish gratification. It irritated me. I was always looking for a father's approval, even from a man who was not my father. Gerrard. Buck. I thought of Buck Frobisher, unable to attend the funeral, and knew that in him I might have found an ally. Not to be. I brushed the thought aside. 

“I understand that there's an opening in the Chicago consulate...”

Gerrard shook his head in frustration, and began to make excuses. I realised that I was not going to win this. He smelled even more guilty than before. Good. He shouldn't be standing in my way. 

“I realise I'm not going to be able to work the case, but at least if I'm in the same city I can check on the progress...”

No. I was right, there was no way I was going to win this. Now he was talking about Moosejaw. Moosejaw, good Lord, as though that had been my fault. I bit back my irritation. Gerrard finally got to his point.

“You're like your father. Out there in no man's land, there isn't a better cop in the world. But in Chicago they'd eat you alive in a minute. Sorry.”

Sorry? I wanted to throw the word back in his face, like the slap it was. Instead I stood, handed him my badge. 

“I understand,” I said, “but you also understand that nothing is going to stop me from finding my father's killer and bringing him to justice.”

He sighed, deeply, put down his glass. “All right, Son,” he said, and his choice of noun made me flinch. It reminded me of my childhood fantasies, made me feel like a traitor to my father. “I know already that Charlie Underhill won't accept your badge. You've got into impossible scrapes, and he's always got your back. So. Go to Chicago, if you have to. But don't tell me I didn't warn you.”

I nodded, put my badge back into my pocket, and left.  
…  
...  
Charlie Underhill arranged transport. One moment Dief and I were standing in the Ministry of Magic, the next we had arrived in Chicago.

Of all the magical modes of travel, I find portkey the most disconcerting. I think it's the tugging sensation in the abdomen, which hits different people with different intensities. To me it's always felt like a fist in the gut pulling. For others it's not nearly so unpleasant.

For Dief, obviously, it was extremely unpleasant. We had no sooner arrived than he threw up on the highly polished Consulate floor. 

“Oh dear...”

“Don't worry,” the young Mountie who was there to greet us at the other end waved his wand with a brisk "scourgify," and cleared up the mess easily. Then he gave a fetchingly innocent smile. “Glad to have you here, Sir.”

I stepped forward, relieved to meet not only another Mountie, but another Auror. “Constable Turnbull?” The question was redundant. I had already been told who to expect. I offered a formal smile, and stuck my hand out. He looked surprised, but took it, and shook it up and down enthusiastically. It made me feel a little better to be greeted with such warmth.

“Yes, Sir, I'm Constable Turnbull. If you step this way I can orient you before you leave the Consulate, so you know what to expect.” He sounded quite brisk and eager. “Here,” he said, “is your wolf licence...”

“Did you have to use magic?”

“No, actually. My colleague managed to procure one through natural channels.”

Really. I felt my eyebrows raise, thinking that I'd like to meet Turnbull's colleague. I wondered was he magical or muggle. Whoever he was, he sounded interesting. 

“For tonight you'll be staying in one of our suites but...” he dropped his voice, “you'll have to use a disillusionment charm, because the Inspector isn't aware of our world.”

“Ah,” I nodded. More of the complicated politics of the RCMP. Integration was a distinct step forward, but it could lead to certain confusions. “Understood.”

“And tomorrow it would be best if you approached the Two Seven using muggle transport.” 

“Two Seven?”

“Of course. I do apologise... that's the vernacular for the station that is dealing with your father's death.”

I felt something release in me. For the first time since my father died I had met someone other than myself who seemed to think it was worthy of investigation. A Mountie and an Auror.

“Thank you, Constable Turnbull,” I said, and the smile came somewhat more easily.


	3. Amicus Alter Ipse

No sooner had I arrived at the Two Seven than I found myself confused. The sergeant at the desk took one look at me and said, “look who it is, Nanuk of the North.” I stared at him, with what I assume must have been a fairly blank expression. Nanuk of the North? Did he assume my patronus was a polar bear? The man did not give off the aura of a magical, and as to why a muggle would say such a thing... I was completely at a loss. Of course, I had been confused since the taxi, and was having disturbingly vivid flashbacks to Moose Jaw.

“Not Nanuk,” I replied, “Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

“No kiddin'... that your dog?”

“My wolf, actually.”

“Cool. You like pigeons?”

“I don't have much experience of them,” I said, over the background of one of the sergeant's colleagues complaining. I wondered if perhaps the pigeon, or dove, was this sergeant's patronus.

“It's not that they're dirty,” he said, “it's just that I'm starting to question their loyalty...”

For a moment I was completely thrown. What on earth was he talking about? This conversation was becoming more bewildering by the second. Then I remembered seeing the pigeon streaked public statues, and flinched the tiniest smile.

“I'm looking for an officer assigned this case number,” I said, handing him a slip of paper. He looked at it, and nodded. 

“Oh yeah, you're gonna like this fella. Drop your stuff over there with Gruber, then head left to the bullpen. You're lookin' for Kowalski. He's the guy buried under ten years' worth of paper work. Sorry though... you'll have to leave your wolf here.”

I thanked the desk sergeant kindly, and left Dief with him. “You wanna donut? Here, have a donut. Nice doggie...” Dief certainly seemed to be in good hands. I made my way to Detective Kowalski.  
…  
…

Kowalksi was indeed behind a mountain of paper work. He was zipping through it, all things considered, at some speed, and a distinct degree of irritation, as though he loathed the task and was trying to get it out of the way as quickly as possible. I stood opposite him, watching him work. Even looking at it from the wrong way round, so that his words were upside down, I could see that his handwriting, spelling and syntax were not of the highest standard. 

As a police officer, however, he was extremely well regarded, and had earned several commendations. I had already read the reports. He had investigated several crimes which turned out, eventually, to involve magicals. On each occasion he had taken the oddness into account, shrugged his shoulders, and arrested the malfeasants, as though witches and wizards were par for the course. Statistically his contact with magicals was surprisingly high for a muggle police officer. As a result he had been obliviated more than his fair share of times. Despite all this he seemed to retain an elasticity of outlook that boded well. I counted myself lucky that he had been assigned my father's investigation.

“I was told that you were in charge of this case,” I said, rather abruptly.

“Oh yeah... the dead Mountie... hang on. I've got the names in my basket.” He looked up at me, and gave an apologetic grin. “Jeez you didn't need to come all the way down here. I was gonna phone you when I'd finished... this.” He looked at his paper work as though it was his own personal nemesis, and scowled. “I made some calls... hang on.” He started rummaging through his in-tray, muttering imprecations under his breath, and his elbow knocked his paper work. “Awh shit,” he said, as it toppled in slow motion from his desk. I put my hand out to catch it, and shoved the pile roughly across the table. I was trying to hold my temper.

“I'm sorry that paper work takes priority over a dead cop,” I said, not in the least regretting my lapse of manners.

“Hey, keep your hair on, I'm getting to it.”

“Detective Kowalski,” I breathed carefully in order to calm myself down, “the dead Mountie was my father, and I would appreciate it if you'd follow up the leads while there's still a chance of catching the man who killed him.” This time I regretted my sharp tone. It felt as though I had made a cheap shot. Kowalski's expression flashed from irritated to shock and sorrow in an instant. It struck me that he had a strangely naked face, was the kind of man whose every emotion would be broadcast to the world, and who wouldn't care one way or the other who knew what he was thinking. Very open, I thought, and wondered how often that fact had hurt him. 

What was I thinking? All of a sudden I found myself feeling awkward. I was staring, and it must have made him uncomfortable.

“Awh, Jeez, I'm sorry, Buddy,” and he did truly sound it, “I didn't mean to be a... you know... insensitive jerk. Listen, here's the list. I called up the American Dental Association, and they're all members. One guy's not paid his dues... what's his name? Uh... Dr Medley. I suppose we should check him out...” He looked regretfully at his paper work. “I just, you know, our Lieutenant's been all over me for weeks to get this done. Sorry about your Dad.”

I nodded, throat tight. 

“Okay, I really gotta do this today or he'll kill me, but I'll come by later and we'll pick this up. Where can I find you?”

“Canadian Consulate, all day.”

“Okay, I'll be there.” He scratched his head, making it, if anything, even scruffier and spikier than before. “Sorry again...”

I nodded, acknowledging his apology, and left.  
…  
…

My initial conversation with Inspector Thatcher was not at all as I could have hoped. Within moments of our meeting, I managed to get on her wrong side. Of course, she may already have been irritated by the way in which the RCMP had overridden the candidate that she herself had chosen for the post. She had a valid point, of course. Leanne Williams had put in four years working for the Inspector, and the one before her, Moffat. When the job came up the woman had every reason to expect the promotion. I knew already that there would be resentment to be overcome. Yet, somehow I had not anticipated that my Inspector would be so very underwhelmed by my arrival.

“Well, Constable,” she said, looking over my file. “You may have friends in high places, but you'll get no preferential treatment from me. For the time being, consider yourself on probation. Which means that your job is to do exactly what I tell you to, no questions asked. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir,” I replied, with a sinking feeling inside. This was beginning to remind me of my reception at Moose Jaw. My C.O hadn't been best pleased with me there, either.

She looked at me speculatively, then gave a frosty smile. “Your full schedule will be on your desk first thing in the morning. For now I have just the duty for you.”

Which is how it came about that Kowalski discovered me standing on the stoop outside the Consulate, keeping guard. 

“Hey, Buddy, nice to see ya... listen, about the...” he stopped, and gawped at me. “Hey, you in there? Jeez... is this what they gotcha doin'? Holy crap, that's gotta be the worst job ever. You not allowed to move or somethin'?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and affirm his opinion that this was, perhaps, the worst job ever. As it was, I was aware that Thatcher would be watching out for any excuse to find fault. And I only had moments left before I was liberated anyway. If I was lucky Kowalski would have the sense to wait. I started a mental countdown.

Kowalski stood next to me, bouncing from foot to foot. “Is this like Buckingham Palace? You got the Queen staying or something? Cause I got to tell ya, you guys would be the world's worst guards. If you can't move how are you gonna stop the bad guys? You know, I could run in right now and kidnap Her Majesty, and you'd have to just stand there like a big red standing thing...”

The clock chimed the hour, and I stepped down off the stoop. “You got something?”

“Yeah... yeah. You know that dentist? The one who didn't pay his fees?”

“Doctor Laurence Medley?”

“Woah, gotta good memory there. You didn't write that down or nothin'... But yeah, him. Well, I checked him out, and guess what? He's got an office, but he's been dead twelve years.” He grinned, obviously pleased to have found a lead. “Whatcha think? Shall we go pay our dead dentist a visit?”  
…  
…

Kowalski was growing on me. His vibrant enthusiasm was infectious, and despite the circumstances I found myself, on a few occasions, bewildered to the point that I was tempted to laugh. 

“It only takes a moment to be courteous,” I said, standing back to allow people to get into the elevator ahead of me.

“Yeah, well, it only takes a minute to step through a door. What do I gotta do here? Kick you up the butt?”

He placed a firm hand between my shoulder blades and shoved. “Coming through, ladies and gents, step back, official police visit to the dentists. Hey Frase, hope you've kept up with your flossing...”

Somehow the truncation of my name didn't annoy me. It felt familiar and friendly, and for a moment I did feel a faint smile. I liked this man. 

I liked him more during our conversation with the dentist who occupied the surgery next door to Larry Medley's empty office. The man had shown us the only photograph of our mystery dentist, and had begun to wax lyrical about his hunting experiences. 

“I came home with that big fellah there,” he said, proudly, pointing to, of all things, a stuffed beaver. The poor creature must have been easy pickings, I thought. Since East Bay Power plant had completed work on the dam the local beaver population had gone into sharp decline. Those who were left bumbled around their strangely changed habitat, homeless, and easily confused. 

“Woah,” Kowalski said, going up to examine it. “That musta been like, some kinda, I dunno, epic battle. Did it go for you?”

“Uhm...”

“Look at those teeth, they could tear a chunk right outta you. You're quite the hunter.”

“Well, thank you...”

The dentist seemed to suspect that he was being mocked, but couldn't quite get the joke. Kowalski flashed a grin at me, and rolled his eyes. “Come on, Buddy,” he said, slinging his arm round my shoulders in a startling display of camaraderie. “Let's get at 'em.”

As we descended in the elevator, he leaned up in the corner against the mirrored glass, and rolled his eyes again. “A beaver. The guy shot a beaver. Prick.”

Kowalski seemed to be my polar opposite, but I liked his forthrightness. Despite my best efforts, I found myself smiling. He smiled back, and winked.  
…  
…

“Here we go,” Kowalski was leaning over my shoulder as I sat by the computer monitor. He was far more into my personal space than I was used to, but I found myself not minding it as much as I should. I could smell his hair gel and aftershave. For some reason I found his proximity comforting, and that surprised me. He reached out and prodded the screen, with long elegant fingers that seemed at odds with his street smart persona. “That guy. Minute I saw him in that photo... some guys you just don't forget.” I could see him scowling now in my peripheral vision. Whatever this person had done, it had really got to Kowalski. “Broke his wife's arm... and I mean broke it and broke it and broke it. Kept slamming the car door on it. Piece of shit... Frankie Drake. Whatcha think? Same guy?”

“Exact same guy,” I said, staring at him. This could be... this could be the man who killed my father.

“And see, there's more. Homicide have been trying to nail him for a mob thing, some kinda hit.”

“He's a hit man?”

“That's the word on the street. I was undercover for a while, they had to pull me when we realised he was probably our guy. He'd have recognised me in a shot, what with me arresting him that time. So, yeah, I know this guy pretty well. So, what was your Dad doing that got someone pissed enough to take out a hit on him?”

“I have no idea... do you have an address?”

“For this guy? You gotta be joking... Oh, hey... there's an idea.”

“What?”

“Maybe his ex wife?”

I nodded. “It's a possibility.”  
…  
…

Dief had taken immediately to Kowalski. Kowalski, after he'd got over the shock of being slobbered on by a wolf took to him. Introductions made, he started up the car, and wove his way through the streets, at an alarming rate, keeping up his patter.

“You gotta wolf? A deaf wolf? I'm like a taxi driver for a deaf wolf? You know animal control are gonna be all over this?”

“I do in fact have a licence.”

“For a wolf? You gotta be kiddin' me? How'd ya swing that?”

“One of your work colleagues, as it happens. A detective Vecchio.”

“Vecchio?” He flashed a sideways grin at me. “Yeah, well, if anyone can get you a wolf licence it would be Vecchio.”

“Good man?”

“Yeah... bit weird sometimes, but that's cause he hangs around with Mounties all the time.” Kowalski was obviously trying to raise a chuckle. “I'll have to watch myself round you.”

“I'll try not to infect you.”

He barked out a laugh, and pulled up outside Mrs Drake's house. 

The building looked dark from the outside, cold and unlived in. I could sense, however, that there were people within those walls. Kowalski walked up the driveway, hands shoved in his back pockets, then noticed I wasn't following. He turned, and looked incredulously as I knelt on the pavement, picked up a stone, and licked it.

“What the hell? You, my friend, are a freak. A shitting freak. Whatcha lickin' stuff for?”

As it happens, I often find clues from the smells and tastes of things. On this occasion, however, I was merely putting on an act for the watcher in the window. Mrs Drake, presumably, looking furtively through her curtains. Once I was sure she'd seen my little show I stood, and joined Kowalski.

“Done licking the sidewalk?”

“Done.”

He shook his head, exasperated, and knocked on the door.

“Mrs Drake?” Kowalski's voice was gentler than I had yet heard it, and his sympathy was obvious on his face. “I don't know if you remember me but...”

“Yes, I remember you.” She had one arm folded across her upper torso, and her top arranged in such a way as to conceal her throat. I imagined bruises underneath. “You've been out here a few times...”

“I know. You keeping okay?”

“Yes, yes, I'm fine.”

“Well, you probably guessed it... we're here on police business. May we come in?”

Mrs Drake folded both arms across her chest, defensively. “You gotta warrant?”

“No...” his shoulders slumped. “Do we need one?”

“Yes. My son's asleep, I don't want him bothered by this stuff.”

I could feel Mrs Drake's fear like nails down a chalkboard, and somewhere in the next room the smug arrogance of a man who thought he could get away with anything. In amongst all of that a sleepy child. I leant toward Mrs Drake and said, sotto voce, “but it's not just your son in the house, is it?” She froze, and stared at me wide eyed. Kowalski also turned and looked at me, surprised. No doubt they were both thinking that I had figured this out, somehow, by licking rocks. “Mrs Drake,” I continued quietly, “if you're scared for your own safety, or that of your son, give us a sign, and we'll figure out a way to help.”

Her eyes flickered toward the bedroom door, and she said loudly, “he's in China Town. When you see him, don't arrest him, kill the son of a bitch. I don't care.” Despite her words, obviously intended to deceive her ex husband, she was pointing, covertly, with one finger, and looking at us with pleading eyes.

I spoke up, clearly, and said, “thank you Mrs Drake, we'll be on our way.”

Stealthily, then, Kowalski and I made our way into the house, and stood by the bedroom door, in such a way that we would be concealed when it swung open. 

“Very convincing,” came Drake's voice as he stepped into the living room. He had a child in his arms. “Now,” and there was a leer in his voice, “let's put you and your Mama to bed...”

Kowalski kicked the door shut, and quick as a flash was behind Drake, with his long fingers pushing hard, for an instant, into his back. For a moment I didn't understand what he was doing, then I realised that he had feigned a gun. It was swift and sudden enough that it might just deceive. I smiled approval. Although he was armed, he was not about to raise his weapon with a child in the room, if he could help it. “Put down the kid Drake,” he said, sternly, “we've got you.”

Drake put down his son, and raised his hands. Kowalski gave a grin that I hadn't seen on him before, something predatory and fierce. “Cuff him, Frase.”

Smiling myself, in grim approval, I did just that.


	4. Vincit Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drake isn't talking, and Ray Kowalski makes the acquaintance of Gerrard.

Drake, as I expected, wasn't talking. He sat in the interview room as silent as the statue of a saint, floating a serene expression that filled me with fury. I had never felt like this before when questioning a suspect. I found myself wanting to put my fist through his face.

Eventually I gave up. As we shut the door behind us Kowalski put his arm around me, and gave me a supportive hug. I was not used to such displays of affection, and despite myself flinched. He registered it, and sighed, stepped back. “This has to be hard for you, I'm sorry he clammed up on you like that.”

“The man's a professional,” I said, trying, and failing, to sound dispassionate. Kowalski had a way of getting under your skin. He was so open in his affection that it was hard not to be open back. I was ashamed of the choke in my voice. I was fooling nobody. “I assume he's paid well to keep quiet.”

“Well, if we can figure out why someone wanted your Dad dead, then we might get a clue who killed him. Once we find that guy, Frankie in there will have to open up.”

I nodded, but was feeling discouraged. “Thank you,” I said, and ducked my head, not looking at him. I felt the need to get away.  
…  
…

I had not yet had time to look for an apartment, and was still living at the Consulate, under cover of magic. At night-time the place seemed to expand, like an indrawn breath, the static muggle paintings themselves seeming to come to a twilit life. Even with Dief for company I found myself unable to tolerate the sudden numinous hush of the place. Apologetically I left him to his rest, and made my way through the deserted streets. In the end I wound up in an all-night greasy spoon café. I ordered mug after mug of tea, sitting at a table by the window, watching my reflection, as though it could advise me on what to do next. Finally, I bit the bullet, and pulled out my father's book of shadows. I had been carrying it for some time, but had not yet gained the courage to read it.

It surprised me. It was less a book of spells and specialist knowledge (though it did of course contain these things) than it was a journal. I felt my fingers go cold as I turned the pages. It felt as though... as though I was riffling through my father's spirit. I caught glimpses of past entries, which would fade and shuffle out of sight when I tried to focus on them. Little lost phrases that did not want to be seen. It occurred to me that I was taking a terrible liberty in reading his words. We had never been that intimate. Part of me wanted to stop. I realised, however, that, as he appeared to have been keeping a journal, there might be some clue contained in the pages of this book. Taking a steadying breath I settled on a page. The wrong page, of course... books of shadows are strange beasts, and do not easily give up their secrets. This one, however, obviously recognised me, and offered up a very strange secret indeed.

“...I tracked McClay up through Chilkat Pass,” my father wrote. “I found him at the top, half a mile from the border. His ankle was broken, his ammunition spent. He just sat staring at the horizon. I took his rifle without a struggle. All he said was, 'don't tell my son,' then he jumped. The man was falling to his death, and all he cared about was how his son would remember him. I buried him there this morning. I'll tell Gerrard he got away from me. The last time I saw Ben, he was barely tall enough to reach my belt. When I said goodbye, he shook my hand. Never a tear nor a complaint. Seven years old, and he's already a stronger man than I'll ever be. Some day I'll tell him.”

I shut the book, and stared again at the glass, past my reflection, into the Chicago night. It struck me that it was never dark here. No true night would ever fall. And it struck me also that I could not remember my father, at any time, ever expressing such pride in me. “Some day I'll tell him...” He never had. It had fallen to his book to tell me, after his death. It hit me with a shudder through the heart.

Gathering my courage I held the book again between my hands, and imagined, as best I could, what I wanted it to reveal. Last day, last entry. I imagined my father writing, and a picture came into my head. His hand, his fingers on the pen, the book shutting on him for the last time. The focus hurt, but it needed to be done. As the image crystallised painfully behind my eyes I opened the book again. 

“My adversaries appear ready to listen. I am nearing victory.”

My fingers traced the words, then stilled as they faded back into the parchment. Proof, I thought. Not that, at this stage, I needed such proof. But proof nonetheless that he had adversaries, that someone out there had a motive to kill him.

I wondered who.  
…  
…

The next morning, early, before Thatcher arrived, I finally got to meet Ray Vecchio. He was slightly taller than me, losing his hair, elegantly slender and extremely well dressed. I flashed for an instant on the other Ray, Kowalski, all spike and attitude, and viv. The two men could not look more different, but it seemed to me that they had more in common than their names, though I could not place exactly what it was. I recognised Vecchio from his Ministry of Magic file, which I had requested after my arrival at the Consulate. I intended to thank him for the wolf licence, but before I could say anything he was talking.

“Hey, Fraser... thought you should know before the Ice Queen gets here, you got a call through from the Two Seven... some coroner up in the big white north wants to talk to you. Something to do with dead caribou? Thought you'd want to get on the phone before she has you standing guard all day.”

“Ice Queen?” It was a pointless thing to say, but it was early, and I hadn't slept well.

“Thatcher. Or Dragon Lady, take your pick. Oh yeah...” he stuck out his hand and grinned. “Sorry we didn't meet up yet. I've been running round like a headless chicken. Auror stuff, ya know how it is.”

I did. Since I had arrived in Chicago I had barely had a chance to consider Auror work. No doubt Vecchio and Turnbull would be glad off all the help they could get, when I was finally able to assist. I took his hand and returned his firm grasp. 

“So, what about these caribou?”

“A hundred yards from where my father died, I found several dozen dead caribou.” 

“Dark magic?”

“No. Nothing like that. It felt like... a natural disaster, only there was no sign of anything untoward.”

“Weird...” he gazed off for a moment, looking like a chess player contemplating a problem. His eyes came back into focus, and he made an expansive gesture of regret. “Sorry... can't think of anything. Let me know what you get, okay?”

“Will do.”

“What's your name, by the way? I mean, I know it's Benton, but I can't call you that. What do you like to be called by?”

“Uhm...” For a moment I was thrown by the question. So far everyone else in America had simply called me by my surname. “My family call me Ben.”

“Ben,” he smiled. “Okay, Benny it is. Listen, you need anything, anything at all, call me.” This was not just courtesy. He radiated sincerity, and I could tell he meant every word. I opened my mouth to thank him, but before I could do so he patted me on my shoulder, and apparated away. 

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. That was the second American detective who had got inside my safety zone. Perhaps it was an American thing, but I found that, once again, I didn't mind the familiarity.   
…  
…

Thatcher let me use her office to take the call.

“Coroner's office.”

“This is Constable Fraser.”

“Oh yeah, I was just about to put this thing in the mail for you.” I could hear him shuffling through papers. “I, uh, I did that autopsy on the caribou you dropped off. It drowned.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Drowned. Lungs full of water.”

Vaguely I heard myself echoing Eric's words. “It drank too much.”

“Yeah, that's another way of looking at it. I'll mail you the report.”

“Thank you,” I said, and put down the phone.

“What was that about?” Thatcher was standing behind me, arms folded, but head tilted in a manner that, for once, belied her stern appearance. She appeared to be genuinely interested. For the second time that morning I found myself describing the crime scene. 

“Near where my father died, there were several dozen dead caribou. Coroner says they drowned.”

“Really? And that is unusual why?”

“They drowned on dry land,” I said, feeling my brows pucker up. 

Thatcher walked around her office, carefully avoiding proximity with me, and stood behind her desk, almost as formal in her stance as I was. She seemed to be coming to a decision. “Constable,” she said, “I understand that your motive in coming here was not primarily to serve the Consulate. However, you have been performing your duties well. And... we heard about your father even down here. He was, by all accounts, a remarkable man.”

I found myself looking intently at the picture of the Queen. “Yes,” I replied, formally. “He was a great man.” It seemed an oddly impersonal way to describe one's father, but I could think of nothing else to say. The words I had read the night before echoed through my head. '...some day I'll tell him...' I blinked. Thatcher's voice continued, still very proper and correct, but with a little more sympathy than I had come to expect.

“For now, I suggest you take the time to follow up on any leads you may have. I understand you have a suspect in custody. Hopefully this won't take too much longer.

“Thank you, Sir,” I said, still looking at the Queen. 

“Dismissed.”

I nodded, and left the room with rather more alacrity than was entirely decent. I had a job to do, and felt, somehow, that I was running out of time.  
…  
…

On arrival at the precinct I was surprised, and relieved to see a familiar face. 

“Gerrard,” I said, smiling.

“Ben,” he said, smiling back, “good to see you, Son.”

“Detective Kowalski,” I said, “this is a good friend of my father's...”

“Nice to meet you, Son,” Gerrard offered his hand to Kowalski in a friendly gesture. Kowalski shocked me by sitting back, and folding his arms.

“You're not my Dad.”

I found myself staring. What could Kowalski be thinking, to treat a superior officer, even one of another police force, with such blatant disrespect? His unfriendliness was utterly unexpected.

Gerrard laughed. “Didn't mean any offence,” he said, “just saying hello.”

Kowalski gave him a suspicious look, and scraped his chair back, stood up. “Hello” he said bluntly. He had a curiously unreadable expression... or rather, not unreadable so much as inexplicable. For some reason he had decided that he did not like Gerrard, and for the life of me I couldn't think why.

“Listen, Ben,” Gerrard said, “give me a shot at Drake. Your father was a friend, I feel I owe it to him to, you know, do what I can.”

My spirits lifted. Finally, Gerrard was acting as I expected a friend to act. I sympathised with him. I could still feel his guilt, and assumed that it had been eating at him since my father's death. The least I could do would be to allow him to confront my father's killer.

“If it's fine with Kowalski's Lieutenant, it's fine by me.”

Gerrard nodded, and I sensed a wave of relief. Yes, I thought, it would do Gerrard good to conduct this interview, and knowing my father as he did, as well as any muggle cop could, he might pick up on something I had missed.

It was a decision, of course, that I was to regret.  
…  
…

I felt it before anyone else heard it. Sudden fear and anger from the interview room. That in itself was not surprising, but the intensity of it... it felt like a life and death struggle. I was on my feet and running toward the room before anyone else knew what was going on. Kowalski was on my heels, and without even knocking I swung open the doors.

Gerrard was standing impassively, watching Drake thrashing on the floor.

“What the hell is going on?” I couldn't help myself, the language just burst out. Kowalski dropped to his knees next to Drake, administering, I assumed, first aid. 

“He's having a heart attack,” Gerrard said, face guarded. I could see it in his eyes though. He was frightened of my response, and that he knew I knew. Somehow, he had poisoned the prisoner, and if I had not burst through when I did, nobody would have known a thing until it was too late.

“He'll be fine, he'll be fine,” Kowalski's voice broke in. “He's coming round.”

Gerrard visibly blanched. I stared at him, completely bewildered. Surely Gerrard realised that my father would have wanted justice, not revenge? I couldn't understand how a man of his standing in the Force could risk throwing his whole career away over this... even over the death of his friend. He looked at me, blankly, and I looked back, equally blank. I couldn't think of a single thing to say.


	5. Amici

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths are discovered, and Fraser accepts that he has friends.

“He's damned lucky you guys got him when you did.” 

We had been in the hospital about half an hour. It had seemed longer. The young doctor looked at her clipboard, then at Kowalski and me, smiling. “Honestly, if you'd been a minute later he'd have choked to death. Which of you guys performed CPR?”

“That was my colleague,” I informed her. Kowalski suddenly looked abashed and scratched his cheek. I could hear his nails grate against his stubble. For whatever reason all my senses, magical and natural, were amplified. The hospital itself was too loud, and it was a struggle to filter out the white noise of so many people, in so many differing degrees of pain. I noticed the shadows of ghosts in the corridors, and tried not to make eye contact with any of them. It was important that I focussed on what was important.

“Well, like I say,” the doctor reiterated, “your friend was lucky. Bit of a miracle, really.”

“He's not our friend. He's our prisoner,” Kowalski pointed out. 

“Oh, oh of course... yeah, I know. Sorry, it's usually friends who visit,” she laughed nervously. “I'm not used to the cops. But anyway... yeah, he'll make a full recovery. Probably not going to be up to talking to anyone for a while, but he'll get there.”

“Have you ascertained the cause of his attack,” I asked, stiffly. 

“Well, actually, we were thinking it might be a suicide attempt. Haven't identified it yet, but looks like he might have taken some kind of poison... Hard to say. We wouldn't have even looked for it if you hadn't... well, if you hadn't been cops. It did look like some kind of seizure or heart attack. Won't know for sure what happened till he's talking.”

“How long's that gonna be,” Kowalski asked.

“I'd say you guys can probably question him tomorrow.”

“Yeah, we'll be here with bells on.” Kowalski turned to me. “So, there are police outside the door, he's cuffed to the bed... I reckon he's safe enough for the time being.”

“Indeed,” I said, my mind still turning on the mystery of what could have motivated Gerrard. Because there was no way Drake had tried to kill himself. How could he have concealed the toxin? Come to that, where would Gerrard have even got a toxin? And why? Had he planned all along to kill Drake? Even for friendship's sake, it was an insane risk. Why?

It felt as though I should be able to understand this, but my mind simply kept stuttering to a halt. There was something... something big. No. I didn't understand.

I was going to have to talk to him alone.  
…  
…

 

It was one thing to plan a private conversation with Gerrard, quite another to actually have one. On return to the precinct I discovered, as I should have expected, that he was elsewhere, answering questions. Most of the work day was to pass before the Chicago PD and RCMP were through with him.

Vecchio made a reappearance, and insisted on walking me to the nearest café. It was daytime, but it reminded me of Chicago night, and reading my father's book of shadows. I still had it on me, tucked deep into a pocket. I wondered what, if anything, it might have to say about Gerrard. I hadn't yet had the privacy to attempt a reading. I put my hand in my pocket, and felt the cover. The book seemed to be squirming. Shaking my head, I retracted my hand, and stared at the cup of tea. I really should remember, I thought, that Americans can't make tea. 

“So, where you from?”

I rubbed my thumb along my eyebrow, staring across the table at him. “Is this a good time to be discussing this?”

“Come on, we're two friends chewing the fat.” He had an easy smile. I recognised that he was trying to keep my mind off things while I waited for Gerrard, and relaxed a little. “Where you from?”

“Well, I grew up with my Grandparents in Inuvik...”

“Really? Is that down town Inuvik, or more the outskirts?” He had a laugh tucked into his cheek, but I was finding it hard to respond.

“More the outskirts...” My voice trailed off. I couldn't help myself, my thoughts kept returning to Gerrard. Vecchio raised his eyebrows, giving a little smile to prompt me to continue. I cleared my throat. “When I was eight we moved to Alert, and after that to Tuktoyatuk.”

“Let me guess... your Grandparents were travelling glacier farmers?”

“Librarians,” I said, and his eyebrows popped up. He hadn't been expecting that. “They served the local muggle communities, but my Grandmother also had an extensive collection of magical arcana. They'd travelled all over the world. China, Russia... Some of her books were...” Again, my thoughts trailed off. Part of me was remembering my Grandmother's collection, the books whispering to each other in their different languages, like the ghost of Babel, night after night. The rest of my attention was still twisting around the problem of Gerrard.

“Really?” The Auror in Ray was clearly fascinated. “How did she contain them? The books I mean? I can't imagine a travelling librarian being able to chain them down that easily.”

“She was highly skilled,” I replied, returning to the conversation. “She had ways of binding the books that... that had been passed down.”

“Fam Trad? Cool. My Ma's Strega,” Vecchio was enthusiastic. “At some stage we should exchange notes.”

“Yes, yes... I'd like that.” I wasn't making polite conversation... I was, despite my distraction, interested to hear of Vecchio's family traditons. I had always thought that the Western schools of classical magic did not credit their folk roots enough. 

“Yeah, well, you'll have to come round for dinner some time. Ma will talk your ear off.” He laughed. “And feed you to death.” He took a mouthful of coffee, and pulled the same face at it that I had pulled at my tea. “This is disgusting... So go on then, Benny? What happened next? You went to Tuktoyatuk? Then what?”

“Then? Then my father remarried, and I moved in with his wife.”

“Yeah? Was she a witch?”

“Yes.” I thought of Ellen, and the difficult time we'd had of it before the arrival of Maggie. I had resented leaving my Grandparents, even for a while, and then we had argued about my refusal to go to wizarding school. Eventually we came to an arrangement. I would spend “terms” with my Grandparents, dividing my time between studying with Quinn and being instructed by my Grandmother. Then I would return in the holidays, like any other wizard child, to the 'parental' home. It didn't feel like home until Maggie had arrived. None of this, however, was I ready to share yet with Vecchio. The man put me at my ease, but I still found it hard to talk about my past. “I've got a little sister,” I offered instead, frowning at my tea. I decided against another taste. “She's expecting her first baby... good Lord. I'm going to be an uncle.”

“Hey, congratulations, Benny. I'm an uncle what, a hundred times over. Better get used to it, kids'll climb all over you, pick your pockets for sweets, and try out spells on you when you're not looking. Harder being an uncle than an Auror.”

I found myself smiling at the image he painted. Part of me feared that I would be as distant an uncle as my father had been a parent, but despite that I wanted the kind of life he described. Children climbing over me, playing, having fun. I looked across at him, and lifted my mug in salute. 

“To being an uncle.”

He raised his coffee mug, and we clinked.  
…  
...

 

I met Gerrard on the steps of the Canadian Consulate. He greeted me and smiled, quite as though nothing untoward had happened. Obviously he hadn't heard yet that Drake was expected to make a full recovery. The officers who had questioned him were evidently keeping some things close to their chest.

“Hi, Ben... what a day, eh? How you holding up?”

I stared at him. “Why... why did you do it?”

“Do what, Ben?”

“You tried to poision Drake. You must have realised that... that there would be questions.”

“There are always questions, Ben. The man killed your father. There was no poison. He had a heart attack.”

“When you were alone in the room with him?”

“These things happen. Come on, Ben, what do you want me to say?”

“I want to know how you could... simply turn against everything my father stood for. You know as well as I do, he would have wanted justice, not revenge.”

Gerrard just stood there, looking at me, with a heavy weary face. 

And then... then I realised. It was like ice cracking beneath me, like falling into dark water, so cold it didn't even hurt at first. I saw it in his face, what he had done, and I saw the moment he realised that I knew.

Gerrard had taken out the hit on my father.

“You son of a bitch,” my voice cracked. “He was your friend.”

Gerrard sighed. The guilt I had been feeling from him for days, that I had so spectacularly misunderstood, rose from him like a stink. “He knew about the dam,” he said, flatly.

Finally. A confession. The truth lay between us now, a blade that neither one of us could ever cross. The man killed my father...

The world shifted suddenly sideways, a dislocated joint clicking back into place, and I started thinking again. East Bay Power Plant, of course. The dam. I recalled the environmental groups and First Nation lawyers protesting, before it was built, and the hopelessness of their efforts. The power plant had all the money in the world, it seemed, and the protesters had only their dedication to the cause.

The water, I realised. The caribou, drowning on what had appeared to be dry land. It wasn't magic, but it wasn't natural either. It was the result of the dam being built incorrectly. As the protesters had predicted, had anyone bothered to listen. The caribou drank too much... they drowned. They drowned when the dam was opened, and water was allowed to flood the valley, relieving pressure on the overstrained mechanism. 

And my father had discovered this, and was trying to reveal the truth.

“It was built wrong,” Gerrard confirmed, almost as though he had heard what I was thinking. “A lot of people have jobs depending on it. They earn their living off it, want homes, cars. You know what that dam brought to our community? How many people would be hurt if it was shut down? Progress has its price.”

“And what was yours?” I was cold, even on this warm Chicago day. “They paid you to keep quiet about it. He was going to turn you in. That's what I'm going to do.”

“I wasn't the only one they paid,” he said. “He gave his whole life to the people up there. All he had to show for it was that little shack of his. Can you see your Dad stuck in some government retirement home? Not likely. It wasn't easy to persuade him to take the money, but in the end he did.” He fished around in his pocket, and pulled out a bank book, opened it. My father's name, a list of payments going into an account.

My face went stiff with rage. If I had been a muggle I might, for a moment, have believed him. Even then, knowing my father... Gerrard radiated deception, and I was sure that the least magical muggle in the world would have felt it. 

He continued, implacable, digging his own grave. “Didn't start off such a big thing. It couldn't hold that much water. So, you twist a valve here, push a button there, and let a little out. Only it turned out to be more than a little, and they had to keep doing it. I think when he saw what it was doing to the land, he just couldn't live with it. He wanted out.” He gazed at me appraisingly. “They wanted me to do it,” he said, bluntly. “I couldn't. I made the call.”

Again, I heard my voice, tight and cold. “He was your friend.”

“Yes, he was. Your father was a great man. A hell of a lot better man than me. And now he's got only one thing left. His reputation. Arrest me, and you'll take away the only thing he ever loved. It's your call. Check the bank.” He thrust the little book into my hands, and I looked at the numbers. “It's all there. I'm sorry.”

I let the book fall to the sidewalk, took a deep breath, and looked up at the sky for a moment. If I'd had a gun I would be pointing it in his face. Part of me wanted... needed even, to pull out my wand and... what? Punish him somehow. But to do so would be to break every magical code of law enforcement. Would be to go against everything I believed in, and my father stood for. Steady, steady Fraser, I told myself, in Kowalski's strangely comforting voice. You'll be okay...

My breathing calmed, and I looked at Gerrard. “There's one thing you haven't taken into consideration,” I informed him. “Drake is making a full recovery. And I'm sure that his lawyers will persuade him to make a deal. He's going to tell everybody exactly what you hired him for. And everybody will know absolutely everything.”

Gerrard stared at me then, and all the bluster went out of him. He looked like a man who had stepped backward off a cliff. He had played his last hand, and he knew it. He didn't even try to resist as I made the citizen's arrest.  
…  
…

 

Drake confessed to everything that he knew. There were more names than I would have guessed, some of them highly placed in the muggle RCMP, some of them simply criminal. One name in particular struck me... in a strange way. No other way to describe it... it hit me funny in the chest, like a spike of ice. Muldoon. Apparently Gerrard had been working for a man named Muldoon. It was he who ordered Gerrard to have my father killed, and so, ultimately, he was as guilty of the murder as Gerrard himself, or Drake. And Muldoon, to the chagrin of all concerned, was still out there. Still beyond the law, still unpunished.

I knew of him, remembered the name from my childhood. Even remembered what he looked like. He had been my father's friend for a while, then somehow crossed a line into criminality. My father had pursued him for... how long? I couldn't remember. Muldoon... something, there was something...

It twisted like smoke, and I couldn't quite grasp it. Even when Drake admitted that he had been given further instructions to kill me I couldn't take it in. Gerrard had committed the ultimate betrayal when he killed my father. That he had wanted to kill me too seemed, somehow, peripheral. Insignificant. How, I wondered, could my poor father have been so deceived, by not one, but two friends? It didn't seem to make any sense. I remembered, again, learning to ride on Gerrard's horse, and what had been a good and happy memory became toxic. Everything I remembered was suspect, as I wondered what was left of my childhood that I could trust. It was as though my whole life had been a lie someone else had told me, and I had been too blind to see it.  
…  
…

 

The day that charges were formally laid Kowalski laid his arm across my shoulders, and drew me away from the court. The crimes had been committed in two countries, and I realised that I was going to be spending a lot of time over the next few months shuttling across borders to appear as witness in the various trials. I had made no friends in either of my professional worlds. The Ministry of Magic was angered by the publicity, which they felt might draw undue attention to their activities, while the RCMP was embarrassed by the fact that I had turned in one of their own. In fact, it had been suggested to me by both my muggle and magical superiors that I should either consider a transfer further north (which, I pointed out, would put me in Russia) or that I should remain at the Chicago consulate. 

From where I stood, remaining in Chicago did not seem like such a bad thing.

“Come on, Buddy, we've got the bastards now,” Kowalski said. His presence was becoming warm and comforting. I no longer flinched when he put his arm around me. I even, at times, wanted to return the gesture. “They're doneski. You gonna be okay?”

I nodded.

“Come on,” he repeated gently, “let's split, you need a drink.”

“Tea, thank you,” I said vaguely. Now that it was all over the world seemed suddenly... floaty and strange. I heard him laugh, and felt him pat my back. 

“Okay, if that's what you want, tea it is. Come with me.”

It felt as thought I'd been obliviated. I knew that we had walked from the court to his car, from his car to his apartment, but I couldn't quite remember the sequence of events. I was sitting on Kowalski's couch, staring at his carpet, sensing some of the energy of the room. The man was a dancer. I could see the shadow of his footfall weaving patterns on the floor. I remained completely aware of all the noises around me... yet none of them seemed to make sense. I had done what I set out to, caught my father's shadow but... I saw again my father's blood on the snow. The world had fractured, and I hadn't even been there. The crack of a rifle that I had not heard, my father falling. This felt... familiar. It felt as though I had lived this before.

Deja vu, I told myself. Nothing more.

Next to me the couch gave as Kowalski sat beside me. 

“Here you go, Frase, tea. Had to dig around a bit, but Stella left some.”

Stella, I thought, remembering the lawyer he had introduced me to, some days ago. His ex wife. It hit me how much I didn't yet know about this man, this man whose laser perception had seen through Gerrard in an instant. I had trusted Gerrard all my life, but to this American detective he had been a pane of glass. 

Kowalski pressed a mug into my hands, and I stared at it. It was a fat mug, with a bright green frog on it. Like everything else, the detail was too clear, too much in my face, and made no sense at all.

After a while, of course, my mind began to settle. Perhaps the silence of his apartment helped, or the fact that he was sitting so close, and so very patiently. I realised that I was clutching the mug like a security blanket. I looked into the milky swirl of it, took a long gulp, and placed it on his coffee table. It had gone cold.

“Thank you,” I said. It may have been the first thing I'd said in an hour or more. I have no idea. It seemed a lot longer.

“You're all right, Buddy,” he replied. “Better?”

“Yes,” I lied, “yes, I think so.”

Kowalski spread himself on the couch next to me, claiming space. His legs were stretched out and folded at the ankle, his arm was resting across the cushions at the back. It felt as though he could touch me at any moment, and I would not mind.

I flushed then, and realised. It had been weeks since I had thought of Victoria. I covered my eyes with my hand, wondering what it was about Kowalski that had just made me think of her. Bureaucracy, paper work... I was going to have to fill in a thousand forms to get permission from the Ministry of Magic to visit her, given what was currently at stake. The murder of not just a Mountie, but an Auror was now a matter of interest in both the magical and muggle worlds. It might be some time before I could see her again.

Kowalski was looking at me with that perceptive gaze of his. “You worried, Buddy? It will be all right.”

“Yes,” I cleared my throat. “I'm sure it will.”

“You want pizza?”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm hungry, I'm gonna order a pizza. You want pineapple?”

“I'll have whatever you're having.”

“Good,” he smiled and stood up from the couch, his absence leaving a chill against my thigh. I hadn't even realised our legs had been pressed against each other till he stood. “Don't know about you,” he said, “but I'm gonna watch the ball game.”

I nodded, dumbly. He passed in front of me, on the way to the phone. Came back with it, threw himself onto the couch again, so there was a bounce. He grinned, leaned sideways, and pulled me into a one armed hug. For a moment I thought he might kiss me. “Sure you're okay, Frase buddy?”

“Yes, thank you, Ray, I'm going to be okay.”

This time, I believed it.


End file.
